You lack foundation.
the absence of substance allows for a hull, dark and soiled
With dripping salt,
up from which oozes the paranoia of such squalid thoughts.
Deep to the core of you,
The ancient-mortared and sickly
slick of you,
It is grey.
Uninhabited by squarely laid designs,
instead, the heaps of ladders mounted,
compromised, abandoned for any upcoming divinity.
A well so long ago forged is hard to cap.
It’s gravity a danger to any passerby only knowing
once it is far too late,
by the markings,
the crimson clawings
On your vacant walls.